


Diptych on Aging

by CeleritasSagittae



Series: Fey Hearts and Faithful Hands [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blight Cure, Erectile Dysfunction, F/M, Grey Wardens, Menopause, Middle Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 22:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16941651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeleritasSagittae/pseuds/CeleritasSagittae
Summary: When your candle is no longer burning from both ends, even weakness becomes a blessing.A matched set of meditations on surviving to a certain age under the Grey Wardens' cure.





	1. Chapter 1

The first time it happens, she’s just finished sparring with one of the recruits (young, energetic, supremely talented, can’t tell if that cockiness is going to get him killed at the Joining or if it’s masking something deeper—it’s funny how they all run together now).  They make their way to the well in the Vigil’s courtyard, and she’s drawing the bucket up when it hits her, like a fire bomb igniting in the pit of her stomach, spreading quickly, too quickly, through her limbs and her lungs, and suddenly there isn’t enough air in the sky above her…

Creators, is this what it feels like, catching a fever?  It’s been so long since she’s caught ill, she doesn’t remember.  Grey Wardens don’t get sick, after all… but she isn’t a Grey Warden anymore.

She sets the bucket down, and empties a ladleful over her head, but it feels as if her skin’s just burning it off.  What’s _wrong_ with her?

“Commander?” the recruit says.

“Don’t mind me,” she gasps, giving him what she hopes is a wry smile.  “They say the hair’s the first thing to go,” which doesn’t even make _sense_ in this context, but she’s been living with Alistair far too long to care about that.  She lets the recruit wash up before getting a second ladle—she’s going to have to sip at it, she can tell, and she isn’t one to make the young suffer while she takes her time.

She’s crying.  She can’t breathe, and she’s crying, and she’s burning, and she has _no_ clue what’s going on.

She wants to laugh.

She dismisses the recruit, and she’s halfway to the infirmary when the burning slows, settles… and then stops.

And that’s when it dawns on her.

Hurrying to her study, she checks the silvered glass in the room and bursts into laughter when she sees the tips of her ears are still red.  Mythal, she must have looked a _wreck_ , as rosy cheeked as Alistair in a brothel.  Part of her wishes he could have seen it, if only for the sheer novelty; the rest of her is mortified.

Which is silly; he’s bound to catch her like this at some point, now, and it’s hardly anything to be embarrassed about.  If anything, it’s a medal of honor.  So she laughs, and throws herself back onto the bed, turning her tears from shame to relief.

Hot flashes.  She never thought she’d live long enough to have them.


	2. Chapter 2

“Well,” Alistair says, frowning as he looks down, “this is embarrassing.”

Fíriel throws her head back on the pillow as the last of the haze he’d worked so hard (and so skillfully) to put her in dissipates.  She knows she shouldn’t laugh—it’s about the worst possible thing she could do right now—but a lifetime of death and destruction has trained her too well. It’s her default reaction to disappointment.  So she’s left to clap her hands over her open mouth, _try_ to stifle the sound, but maybe she’ll end up looking horrified instead and _that_ would be the worst possible thing she could do.

“Ooh, that smarts! Care to rub a little more salt in there, my dear?”

“Love,” she gasps, and of course a loud bray of a laugh has to slip out, “I’m sorry; I don’t mean to—look, we can keep trying.  It’s not as if I can’t stand touching you.”

“No,” he sighs.  “I’m afraid it’s well and truly— _stupid_ thing,” he mutters, and it’s hard to tell from the angle, but she swears he’s _glaring_ at it.  “You know, I _thought_ this was a myth.”

“You—wait, _really_?”

He lies back next to her, hands behind his head.  “Yes, well, I’d heard plenty about it from the Chantry initiates, but the sum total of their practical knowledge didn’t go much farther than ‘which end of the weapon to hold.’  You wouldn’t believe half the things they said about dwarves.”

Fíriel raises an eyebrow. “Do I _want_ to know?”

He shrugs, and, as if it’s too scandalous to be spoken aloud, even when they’re alone in a room with very thick stone walls and a privacy rune to boot, whispers in her ear.

“You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I were,” he says blithely.  “Ah, the follies of youth.”

“Your initiates were _idiots_.”

“I never said we weren’t!” He grins.  “Anyhow, you can imagine that when I finally met a trusty group of men, who actually _knew_ what they were talking about, I was inclined to disbelieve everything I’d heard up to that point.  And they made it quite clear it had never happened to them…”

“…Ah,” Fíriel says.

“Stupid Warden stamina.”

“It’s all right,” she says, reaching over to brush his cheek.  “This is a small price to pay for another thirty years with you.”

“I _know_ ,” Alistair says, “but… is it strange that it still feels _wrong_?  As if… I’m letting you down, somehow?”

“Don’t say that!  I… feel worse for you, to be honest—as if you’ve spent all this time making a five course meal, and now that you’re sitting down to eat it you realize you’re full.”

“ _We-ell_ …”

She lays her hand on his arm before his grin can get any wickeder.  “ _Vhenan_ , it’s _fine_.  Just let me know when you think you’re ready to try again; it’s not as if we haven’t all night.”

Alistair’s grin is unresponsive to her.  If anything, it only seems to get worse.  “What made you think I was finished with you?”

Fíriel looks at him meaningfully.

“Oh!  Oh, no!” he laughs.  “I still mean to have my way with you, my dear.  Just because _some parts_ of me are feeling a bit contrary doesn’t mean I have to listen to them.”

“But it’s not _fair_ …”

He leans across and kisses her lightly on the lips.  “I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.”

“If you insist,” she grumbles, but her heart’s only half behind it, and pretty soon she loses the words to express it anyhow.


End file.
